Statement for the Defence
by Random Ruth
Summary: On the evening of the verdict Abby Thompson visits her Gran. Spoilers for episode 2.7. One-shot.


**Author's Note:** This is my first Broadchurch fic. The idea popped into my head when watching the episode on Monday and has been plaguing me all week. I've been so busy with lambing that I'm only getting round to writing it now, but I wanted to post it before Monday's exciting finale. Enjoy! :)

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**Statement for the Defence**

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Abby Thompson scribbles an illegible version of her signature into the visitor's book. It looks more like peaks of royal blue Jurassic cliffs than a name. At this time of night there's nobody behind the desk to comment on it. Behind the empty chair, an anonymous antiques programme plays on mute.

She turns from reception towards the stairs. On the way she passes that same nurse she always passes, an older woman in her mid-forties with a practical ponytail and friendly expression. Abby doesn't know her name, but the woman always says 'hello' anyway.

On any other day Abby wouldn't have time for this. She would just nod, smile if she was in the mood, and walk on.

Today she slows her stride slightly so she can read the woman's nametag.

"Hello," the nurse says. She looks busy, she always does.

"Hi, Angela," Abby says breezily. The tone feels unusual on her tongue. Angela doesn't manage to hide her surprised expression. Abby walks on and pretends she doesn't notice.

She goes up the stairs, dodging the old man who's on the stair lift, waving his walking stick around. She turns left, keeps going until she reaches the third door on the right. She knocks on the wood softly, then a little harder. When there's still no reply, she pokes her head around the door.

She manages a smile, but it's a bit rough around the edges. "Hi, Gran," Abby says.

There's an empty tray on the bedside table containing the residue of soup. It's a small room with an adjustable bed, a ten-year-old television and dated floral wallpaper, but it's all the Thompson family can afford.

She remembers sitting in here five years ago, when the room was a blank canvas, unlived in, holding her gran's hand as she said, "It's okay, Gran. I'll study, do well in school, get a good job. Save up some money to find you a better place. I promise."

It hardly matters now.

"Hello, Adele," Gran says, and the corners of her mouth creep up. Her attention is divided between Abby and the same antiques programme that was on down in reception.

Abby pulls a chair over next to the bed and sits down. "_Abby_," she corrects gently, taking her gran's hand and squeezing it slightly in the hope that the correction will sink in this time.

"Oh," Gran says quietly, like this is news, focusing now on a corner of the room.

Gran's hand is warm and soft and delicate. It's the same hand Abby held on visits to the beach when she was younger, that put a plaster on a cut knee, that wrote notes so Abby could go on school trips. Her handwriting was beautiful, even though it took Abby seven years to be able to read it. Abby rubs gentle circles into the skin of her gran's hand with her thumb.

Gran talks. The subjects are scattered and varied. Abby only half-listens to something about marmalade and jam. Gran mentions how she's going to darn that pesky hole in the sleeve of her favourite cardigan, the green one with the flowers on the front. Abby knows that Mum threw that... _distinctive_ cardigan out several years ago.

But Abby says nothing and takes comfort in the nonsense.

"Did you defend that man?"

The sudden question makes Abby jump, and she looks up from Gran's hand to see that Gran is staring right at her, her eyes clearer than they have been all night. Abby glances up at the television, and swallows when her suspicion is confirmed. The news is on. There's a photo of Joe Miller walking into court with his head down, the verdict scrolling underneath the photo on a red background. Then the image changes, and Joe Miller's stare lingers with her even in the pencil drawing from the courtroom artist.

Abby looks away from the black graphite eyes.

Her answer sticks in her throat as her gran watches her, waiting for the answer.

Ben's words from earlier this afternoon rise to the surface again. She hadn't been able to bury them very far down.

_I wanted to say, I think you're a truly horrible person_.

It hit Abby then, like a ton of bricks or one of Sharon's bad moods, that she'd become caught up in the competition. It's a game with high stakes and only winning matters. It scares her sometimes how far she is willing to go to gain the edge and secure victory. And she realises now, as gran's eyes bore into hers, that this is not the person she wants to be.

She doesn't want to be a horrible person. And she's afraid, because if Ben thinks that—quiet, surprisingly non-confrontational Ben—then what will Gran think?

Abby has never lied to her Gran before.

She shakes her head, feeling a bit sick. "No, Gran."

"When's _Songs of Praise_ on then?" Gran asks, turning to the television again.

And just like that, a momentous moment in Abby's life is passed over.

Abby sighs, squeezes the delicate hand. "It's Thursday, Gran."

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**THE END**


End file.
